Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

Space debris | Camera | sofa | mantel with | grape black tulips | in a white | ceramic milk jug | with sky blue dots | square mirror with | precious images of | us | floating | Can we get to there, or get back | there? | An explosive | stillness | And the fuse of thought | still sparkling | with lit gunpowder | Sealed in | to the heavens’ | moment | Orbit a memory | and beneath us, as always, the rest | the spurious | other | the continental | excess | the long, hard, fertile | splurge of the world | No

Stopped the car outside | the Madonna factory | Statues stacked in yards, wrapped in crates | seconds and rejects | Rather | drowsy after | a taxing drive | Dust | trapped inside the china wombs | goats bleating down cobbled lanes, spilling | across the dying town | I half expected | chunky furred and crowned | figures from the Trecento | to populate my dreams, we’d seen | so many paintings | The vagina | ideally | uncaressed | hymen taut | the way through | unfound | like an America | or a silent moon | though she was late | as the bells | dinged out their sweet calm chimes | herd with echoes of god | inside a porcelain head | she was immaculate | Later | we parked the car off the road | in wild woods | caught by a thoughtless urge | a pinch of flash between | our thumbs and fingers | and fucked awkwardly | climbing the mountain of our little needs | such little needs | to such pure high peaks | of snow above | orgasmic clouds | And later still | much later | after the deaths | the great deaths and the little deaths | now alone | I study the exquisite skeletons | of moments | with their glistening | thistledown bones | drifting unattached | through emptying days | across gardens and courtyards | through offices and malls | on trains | in kitchens | lounges | bedrooms | on stairways | all the time | trying to grow used | to the idea | that what I see I cannot see | not as it really is | structured to its perfect point | I see my life | not space debris


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

On castaway streets, the little windfall plums beginning to break again | making the pavement at the corner sticky and stained — the pleasure and melancholy of seasonal return | the familiar and ephemeral | my second turn around the island | To the tale of the tormented genius | with feverish finances and the unfortunate habit | of making bad marriages | so quiet in the provinces, one may sit and count the slow, lucid ripples | reaching this gentle backwater | elsewhere has become a legend | and her presence, largely, forgotten | Alcohol does not help | but repetition calls one summer from the last | — in this way | knowing happens, because it was, and is again | no more | The fervour of his delirium, the torture of morals | taken seriously | by a person essentially fickle | no wonder it ended badly | In the middle of the mental breakdown, pay at the counter and leave

I’ve noticed, the horse chestnuts are the first to turn | Autumn’s outliers | Gold and silver and bronze on the podium | Not hearing a human voice for the first three days | and then for another three | another fourteen | and twenty three after | and after | … | Ghosts are formed by habit, we do not notice that we’re dead | taking the books back to the library | Don Quixote and still at page 47 | becoming attached to a name | Old people sifting through the background | prototype phantoms | testing out the rings | somehow | inferno, limbo and paradise | become confused and leak together | to form a single, spiritual mush | My body has gone, gnawed by crabs off Toyama | I suppose the bones last a little longer? | Still keeping the diary, though with less and less to record | or perhaps only the same things | from last year | the windfall plums on the pavement at the corner | staining the flags black | though when they’re freshly fallen and broken open | their flesh is often a gelid amber | dust sticks in the smeared fruit | Also, I notice how slowly the very old woman moves | with her zimmer frame | as if inhabiting a film shot at different speeds | to the rest of us | a string of pearls on her breast | harder than she is | Familiar with repeated scents | with the first heat of spring | the first coolness in September | knowing these phenomena more deeply | and more acutely | with less time left to savour them | On a path at noon, out by the bay, a gory privilege | skin beginning to burn | and among my things | the meaning of life and a bottle of sand | and a cleft in the rock where a genie came out | and said “OBOCAMBABARRA!” | When you’ve used up all the known places, only elsewhere is left


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

I was meant to write | a poem among | the persimmons | in Arashiyama, but | the words never formed, and | I | failed you

Each year | the persimmons flower | and their fruits | fall around the house | of the poet, and among | the ovaloid shadows | they throw across | the ground | no one notices | the many | silences


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

In a portable wilderness, we met | We had mountains, larches, snow in winter (and it was bitter cold) | There were reindeer, sharks | there was Mahler and great sex | and churches with the spirit in them | Of course, there were pinches of paradise, but these weren’t | too piquant | the naturalists with their toucans and marmosets | weren’t particularly | ostentatious | we still had time | for the railway stations and the long farewells | Then we fell out, and the wilderness | grew civilised | It was just that the meaning altered | really | all the other components were the same | but of course | the meaning was everything | You slept with the mountains | under your pillow | the new megacities creaked and groaned | spewed their cogs and bytes | but I was nostalgic | I kept yearning for the summers with the bike rides in the country | thistledowns | floating through the warm evening air | and the Giacometti shadows | and Jarvis with his fine | Jamaican lilt | The reindeer were toys and the sharks were weighed and their skulls displayed | and people wrote poems about them | the final | insult | We learned new skills | became curators of vanished peoples | I shifted product | you paid the bills | The wind blew the calendar’s pages | the years went 90, 91… 93 | What we saw, we don’t see | What we grew, we no longer sow | And if we didn’t have to keep talking, talking, talking | do you know, I think | there’d be no more to say

To crush the | skeleton of sleep inside | my body

A glamorous parasite | glitters and won’t | let me go | Moonlight fans / across the bay and / the trees are all / in blossom


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

On a concrete wall, just out of reach, the softening | is coming | She has left | her phone in Eden | he thinks he | can hear it ringing | None of the cars | are going anywhere | when the moon blossoms | they will not wait | how could they? | What could be easier | than falling? | She closes | he closes | they delicate | the space between them | with the contours | of their skin | Knowing | their way back | is not knowing | and is not going | they try to remember | if it is summer? | Just before, she wonders | will she ever | be this young again?

The cars begin to go | Abruptly, the world is full of destinations | Softly, the moon | puts out its antlers | a cigarette carton | is a light, golden tomb | (scrapes underfoot) | They sit and don’t know, much, of anything | the city glides in hourglass slump | towards a centre | that is falling | They feel the deer running | spooked | by a scent | Virginity | instils them | with the shimmering | of their limits, they cannot | be taken | until | they take | At the other | end of summer | the beginning | wakes them


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Slowly and slightly, on the mountain lying aslant on the table, it was alleged, snow was falling | For a moment, with the clear, generic good looks of the boy on the Photo-Me booth | The beautiful naked women were walking out of the sea, like this, to the sift and shuffle of encomia | the hands without rings moved | she joined the list, or one of the lists | Enough labour to build a pharaoh’s tomb | he wonders | do tombs count as infrastructure? | The unhappiness is unevenly dispersed | and people sense the injustice | they crowd around the entrance | like refugees huddling at the back of a truck | where supplies are being distributed | nervously, by the harassed employees of NGOs | he will not fret for them | for all his talents | one can sense his vulnerability | and she is young | she cannot command | the spiritual energy | it is a big ask | The hand with a ring | removes another chance of Alps, or Purcell at the crematorium | it is the assembly of good style | the manuals explain | by the refined | culling of unnecessary elements | Slipping away quite quickly | like the chance of werewolves | in the minds of abducted schoolgirls | his innocence surely cannot | Sadness isn’t a virtue | and the others are heads on stacked TVs | at the end of the working day | Doreen flicks a single switch | to turn them off | then nothing remains of them at all | then no one can call them beautiful


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

The rebel’s day job | On small neat hooves he prances by | just a kid | and the devil sits back in his deck chair | licks his ice cream | the beach | a parp of trumpets and the hoot of steamers | evil is tiring, same as good | he’s earned his vacation | Made for kodak and instagram | clean jawline and youthful angst | looks into the mid-distance | of a dead Midlands town | eyes a Siberian void | remembers the tenderness of the baby rabbits | and the blood, of course | wipes his hand on a scarlet rag | wonders how his world will end | in a field surrounded by | carburetors and cams | the carcasses of ridden machines | At night | flowers and lovers | poise for the blossoming, the poets | harnessed to their readers’ art | hang from their chutes | paratroops | shot on descent | settle loosely when they reach the ground | and, slowly dragged | across the wheat | wait for the great adventure to start

More of the same | Scratched on the back of a postage stamp | an alternative bible | She’s doing drugs in the toilet | of a club called GRIND | she keeps a typhoon in a jam jar | on the tip of her tongue | sometimes | and the inner | bottom of her upper lip | a taste of marmalade | and the knife held | from daddy’s royal veins… | She has no flesh, but her hair is long | as if she should be carrying pistols | and have a small blonde goatee | In the malls | the crowds mound up their skulls | the weekend needs bombing flat | the cities | are being razed, but no one | notices… | The genius | uneasy with her smalltown friends | the tattoos of angels and daggers | and crumbling dice | it’s another | boring murder | and the mechanic is at a loss | only cares about Triumphs and Nortons | Inside his sleep | coffins are opening | and dead engines rev | the gangs | feel April coming | or winter in the driving sleet | and prepare for crashes | and the long, long hours | poring over agendas and spreadsheets


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Cleaning the inside of a flame | scrubbing it out to make | the burning brighter | The mirror is also the face in the mirror | an intricate | Versailles of perception | your spirit drifting in a different | direction to your needs | Cold winter will | advise you | take these warm paths | huddle, ball up | sleep out the golden months | of gas and ice | if you come alive | after the snow | uncurl | blink those baby eyes | giant like a cute little | lemur’s eyes | tip the world into them | until you can see | all there’s to see | Beneath you | the debris of your gaze | spreads in glittering shards | and a rope waits | for hanging or for hauling | for the great way out or the great leap forward | The trees wait | the bodies in the trees | wait

Entangled in fire | Cutting through rigging as the ship goes down | Rent a car, and drive out there | or take your old camper van | into the forest with the palace and the gardens | and the bars and the clubs | skyscrapers and underground | stations | all of our next locations | The trees wait | and the bodies in the trees | miss one | Through a Hall of Mirrors | diplomat thoughts pace and muse | in imagined veins | vagabonds of affect and void | stumble | planting the woods as they go | Look anywhere in the world, and you will find | connections to a terrible mess | but scrape out the guts | of the flame, anyway | let its hollow recent light | guide us | if not free of the war, then at least | clear of its hearing | and drift into the meadows outside town | lie down on blankets, let the night come on | lit with images of mitteleuropean | mountainside castles | and take the forked path out | between the swans in your mind | and the swans on the river | late in the summer but still not | too late | and never find | you are one of the missing | oh, but | wait


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

The world hangs | from threads of breath: | eggs | sunflowers | your mother’s | touch

Summer had gathered | the empty room | The white | nets | belled and | slumped | as the breeze | rose and | fell | Ghostly | Madonnas and | weddings | Omelettes | the moon | a door | slamming | the sound of footsteps | running away | down the street || Broken things are merely | changed things || only, sometimes, we can’t | let the breaking | go

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Skyline changed | Don’t come back

A temple of fragments | Ruin of such order | the rain for days, empty, mindless | comforting in those conditions | assuring us we have no part in it | complete and unneeded | like an extinct species | Maps of an underground country | Winifred, Cuthbert, Wilhelmina | Breaks up the | consensus | as it is now | a little | reincarnation of the young | false notes among the orchestra | a genius | runs a fool’s errand | echoes of the martial pomp | of wartime | An era | of wits and cads and cards | of tear gas and torn cobbles | weeds tower | among the progress | and then the progress | turns to Mars | Don’t wait too long | Glances, smoke not indebted | to the fire, floating | across walls, furniture, ceiling | A memory brushes lips | A grasshopper | disturbs a graveyard

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)